


Slave of the past, slave of the present

by Anthony_Draws



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood, Drunk!Alistair, I mean who would even do that to him, Kinda, M/M, Old Friends, Poverty, Torture, also post DAII in a way, brutal shit, but angry sadness, but heeey he meets Zevran again, but not cry sadness, but not really around DA: I, exiled Alistair is sad, fucking rude, just prepare for sadness, post DA: O, rough shit, sad shit, so good, so that's good right??, uh...., yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8316763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthony_Draws/pseuds/Anthony_Draws
Summary: After he had been exiled, Alistair sank into a mug of beer or whatever else he could get his hands on. And since nobody seemed to care all that much anymore, he spiralled deeper and deeper into the black hole of sorrow and self-hatred.
Then, after years of pain, emptiness and alcohol, Alistair finds out that a former friend of his is around, but not in the way he wanted to. He has to make decisions now and probably also sober up a little. But that's easier said than done.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic that I actually upload....after being too nervous....meh, you'll see how it went I suppose.

Stumbling out of the tavern, the way he did every night, Alistair tried his best to not throw up all over himself, as well, the way he did every night.

Being exiled had taken its toll on him, made him sink into whatever alcohol he could get his hands on until he was out of the bits of money he had left. And his plan of letting people hire him to fight their battles was flawed, which he had to realize soon, since his body was slowly breaking in thanks to all the alcohol.

He had lost everything, being chased away like a traitor. He had lost his strength and his body had swollen and bloated from his drinking. There was no more will to fight in him. And so, instead of trying to regain his power, Alistair gave in after all and decided to spend all the money he got on the cheapest drinks.

It wasn't as if he planned on doing so, not at all. But whenever he got sober again, whenever the headaches and the shame began to well up, there was no other way for him than to drink again, drink, until the pain was drowned out, until the memories and nightmares finally left him. And so he hadn't been sober in days, probably weeks, maybe even months.

Stumbling towards the alley that he mostly slept in now – it was almost silent and nobody would bother him there, Alistair overheard a conversation by hooded men, looking so mysterious that even as drunk as he was, he felt like something was strange about them. They didn't seem to acknowledge him as danger though. After all, he was so drunk it was hard for him to stand still.

One of the man mumbled something about a special attraction, the other agreeing on it being special, stating that he had waited forever for 'them' to come to town. Then they turned away and left in the opposite direction that Alistair was headed.

Deciding that – despite being curious – the conversation was not important, Alistair wobbled towards his silent alley, sinking down as soon as he reached his silent corner behind a couple of stacked boxes. Sobbing and shaking, mostly in order to exhaust himself entirely, Alistair laid down on the dirty blanket that was his bed now, resting his head on the edge of a pillow made of cloth over some straw.

* * *

 

Waking up to a terribly pounding headache, Alistair groaned before trying to pull himself up with one hand on the boxes next to him, feeling like he was very close to vomiting and falling over. And his anger was back. The anger about his body making him feel like an old man, his bones cracking and his joints hurting.

The sun told him that it was clearly afternoon already. Nothing new to him though. Falling asleep in the early morning hours and waking up when it was already fine to drink again.

Surprisingly enough, the street leading towards the tavern was deserted, not crowded with drunkards the way it usually was. Of course, most of them were not closely as drunk as Alistair was most of the time, but they were carrying their beverages around with them, clinging to them while hugging their friends just too dearly to be sober.

The tavern he usually drank in now was not his first choice, not even the second. Alistair was not even sure if it was just a drunk hallucination, but he could faintly remember sending Teagan away after he had offered him “help”. Except Alistair now knew he never meant to help him. He just wanted to lecture him, wanted him to feel bad about himself. But after all he had been through, Alistair had been through enough of that and so had sent Teagan back to where he came from, maybe even becoming slightly aggressive. Okay, very aggressive.

After the man had left him alone, it was already well-known around town that Alistair meant more trouble than he was worth and so he was pushed further and further back into the darker alleys where the more unwelcome folks spent their time.

Seeing the alleys this empty, almost looking clean like this, was strange and meant that something was either happening somewhere else right now or something terrible was about to happen in the tavern.

Not caring all too much though, Alistair rubbed his temples in need of a beer to wake up properly before pushing the door open and waving at the barkeep.

“Where....where's everyone?”, Alistair grumbled as he slumped down on a chair, tilting his head slightly before grabbing the offered beer.

“Heh, boy. What do you think? There's an opportunity to play for them around town. They're all rotten buggers, they usually end up attracted by the same downtime activities.”, the barkeep laughed while wiping the table with a wet cloth.

“There's a man 'round here, calling himself an artist, letting others paint their pictures in blood. Now, they don't care 'bout the painting. They care 'bout the blood though. That artist guy has a 'partner', as he calls him. Where he gets all the blood from.”, an old man chuckled in the corner, his dark, dirty hands that missed some fingers wrapped tightly around his ale.

“Torture event? Sounds just like something they'd enjoy..”, the barkeep sighed and turned around to go into the back, closing up the barrels he had opened, knowing that he wouldn't make much money this day.

While he had heard of traveling slavers who let people enjoy their slaves for a while, a planned event like this was new and strangely enough, Alistair was intrigued. It wasn't as if he wanted to hurt a slave, or any innocent person, but he felt quite a lot like yelling all his frustration and anger out without having to worry about getting thrown out of wherever he was.

“So...you happen to know where this...'event' is?”, Alistair asked as carefully as he managed with his head still throbbing like this and the beer warming him up again already.

The man slurred a description of the rundown house where he would find the people he was looking for, telling him to not go there if he didn't have a strong stomach. But after splitting Darkspawn heads for all that time, despite it being far over now, Alistair knew he was able to get through whatever awaited him.

Throwing some money onto the bar, he got up slowly, clearly able to move around well for a while now. After all he was just drunk enough to endure his pain, but not too drunk to see right.

Waving towards the few men sitting in the tavern, he headed for the door, then down the alleys to the house where the 'artist' was holding his little event. The house always looked as if it was about to break down during the next storm, but now it looked especially decrepit.

Looking around one more time, Alistair pushed the door open and went down into the basement right away, knowing that it was insane, even for those kind of people, to do anything against the law this openly in a house that had cracks big enough to look right through it if you stood at the right angle.

It didn't take him long to find his usual drinking companions, most of them drunk already, some waving belts and leather-bands around while yelling and cheering. They were making it impossible for him to see what happened in the corner of the room, but Alistair knew just too well that elbows were made for those exact situations.

Pushing through the masses, he made it closer and closer to the front until he finally saw what these men were so excited about.

Hanging tied up by his wrists hung a terribly skinny, naked man, wounds marking his entire body and blood dripping down into a large bowl below him. The men laughed and cheered whenever one of them managed to hit the weak body hard enough to draw even more blood.

The short man's shoulders looked like they were twisted out of their joints by now and Alistair was not even sure he was still alive. He couldn't see the poor guy's face, long blond hair covering his face entirely.

After all he had seen, after all the slaughter and war and hatred Alistair had experienced, this view still turned his stomach and made him curse as he forced the beer down his throat again that was trying to escape him so badly now.

Stumbling backwards until he hit the wall and was out of the mass of yelling men again, he saw a man stand in the opposite corner, smiling and not seeming to care about anything that was going on. Even through the alcohol it was easy enough for Alistair to figure out that he was the slaver, artist, or whatever he might want to be called. The fat belly hanging over his belt and his greasy skin made clear to Alistair that the man made good money with whatever he was doing.

Turning towards that man now, Alistair decided to confront him.

“You. What are you doing to that guy?”, he asked, almost shouted, not sure what impression he was leaving, but not caring either.

“Why? Want to have him? 2 Sovereigns and he's yours.”, the man offered with a huge grin that spread from one pointy ear to another.

Alistair didn't understand the man for a second, not sure what exactly he meant about that. And apparently it was obvious enough for the man so he quickly elaborated “He's almost dead anyway. You know what? 1 Sovereign and you can give him the deathblow or whatever else you wanna do to him.”

So he wasn't selling his slaves for hours, he literally let people torture them until they reached the brink of death, then sold them as long as they were still warm and people could use them for whatever fantasies they had. And the way he knew those men around here, they surely enjoyed that kind of thinking.

The man was getting impatient with Alistair already, pushing through the men and ripping the man's arms from the hook he was hanging on, telling the crowd that he would be back with a new 'toy' soon enough. Then he threw the lifeless body towards Alistair.

As it hit the stone in front of Alistair's feet hard, the hair fell back and revealed a tattoo over the poor man's cheekbone, together with pointy ears and pouty lips.

Like a punch to his guts, the sight made Alistair almost sober again. He knew that face! He knew that tattoo!!

Leaning over the fragile body of his former brother-in-arms, he almost didn't dare to touch him, as if that was already enough to make the bones of the man shatter.

Searching his pockets, Alistair somehow managed to get just enough coin to pay the slaver what he asked for before quickly picking up the bleeding body that felt lighter than any adult, no matter the size, should ever be.

“Zevran....? Are you....”

He wouldn't honestly ask him if the elf was alright. The question could be easily answered just by looking at him.

“It's alright...”, he reassured the limp body before storming up the stairs and out of the basement, making sure to not knock the other's body on any edges or corners.

But as soon as he left the building, Alistair realized that he might have made a terrible mistake just now. After all it was almost over for Zevran anyway, the way he looked like this. He would have left without realizing it, already part of the Fade anyway. But now Alistair forced him to live longer, despite his pain and injury, probably forcing him to suffer until death would finally come to release him.

Looking at the body in his arms, the arms dangling in a way that now made him sure that his shoulders were dislocated, the ribs rubbing uncomfortably against his arm, Alistair tried to make a decision. There was no way Zevran would survive a week with him like this. Not on the streets, without potions, bandages and a bed. But dropping him just then and there and running was unlike him, no matter how drunk he was, no matter how much he suffered.

While Alistair had always been skeptical of the elf, they had both grown closer after some time, had lead some rather nice conversations even. And Zevran had never judged him for anything, only laughed a little but never really at him. And when Alistair had gotten exiled, he had even offered to come with him, to try and help him.

But Alistair had been pushing him and everyone else away. He had been just too hurt, too disappointed and shocked.

Shaking his head to himself, Alistair decided that Zevran would stay with him this time. There was no way he was going to let him die like this, alone, tortured.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I will try to upload another chapter soon-ish.


End file.
